


Man in Black

by Jennie_D



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Free Folk Jon Snow, Gen, M/M, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Pre-Relationship, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform, free folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:35:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20086855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: In the snows and wilds Beyond the Wall, slowly the man in black became something new.





	Man in Black

The gloves were first.

One morning, about a week after the Free Folk left Castle Black, Jon woke to find one of his black gloves had gone missing in the night. He searched his sleeping furs and the snow around his tent for nearly an hour, cursing as his fingers grew colder and colder.

Jon had almost resigned himself to wrapping his hand in spare hide for the day when Tormund’s youngest daughter, Munda, arrived with a new pair. He accepted them gratefully and put them on. The hide and fur soothed his frozen skin quickly. Jon promised to teach Munda to spar in return, and her answering grin kept Jon warm for the rest of the day.

As Jon rode, he occasionally looked down at his hands. The grey hide stood out sharply against his black leathers. A stray thought crossed Jon’s mind. _The Watch might be cross with me if I return to Castle Black out of uniform._ But Jon cast the thought aside. That was a problem for far in the future, not for now.

Then came the boots.

Jon’s Nights Watch boots had served him well for many years. But as the Free Folk waded through heavier and heavier snows, Jon felt himself slipping more and more frequently. Other times the snow would find its way in around the tops, making Jon’s feet cold and wet until they camped for the evening.

One night, Jon told himself he’d solve this problem by wrapping his boots in furs as the Free Folk did. Yet he could not seem to get it quite right. The furs either fell to the snow when he stood or cramped his feet so he could barely walk.

But then Jon was approached by Geir, a boy of about eleven. He often seemed somewhat shy, awed by the older warriors in the clans. Geir timidly offered to show Jon how to wrap his boots. He spoke quietly at first, but gained more and more confidence as the conversation continued. He taught Jon how to hold the furs tight, how to shape them to his feet. He even showed Jon how to attach grips made from antlers to the soles, to help Jon’s steps stick into the ice. Jon listened patiently to Geir’s instructions and let the boy correct him when he made mistakes. Soon, Jon had a warm pair of boots that would last the winter.

Geir had asked for a story in return. For a moment Jon felt at a loss; he'd done many things in his life, but Jon felt few of them were heroic or worthy of grand stories. So he told Geir about others; about how Sam slew a White Walker and rescued Gilly, about how Arya killed the Night King and saved them all, about how Tormund always fought fiercely for his people.

Geir was enraptured, and as Jon went on, he found himself more and more absorbed by telling the stories of those he loved. He spoke with both voice and hands, imitated people and made shadows in the firelight. Once, Jon glanced up and saw Tormund looking at him tenderly. Geir was eventually dragged home by his mother, and Jon walked back home in his new boots.

_If the Night’s Watch doesn’t like them when I return, I can always untie the furs to uncover the black leather below_ Jon thought.

But he hoped the Watch wouldn’t mind. These altered boots were warmer than any Jon had ever worn, and he’d worked so hard with Geir to make them.

His breeches were next.

Even with new boots, the terrain the Free Folk traveled was hard going; sharp rocks and deadly ice around every corner. One morning, as Jon helped a clan elder up a particularly steep hill, he slipped and tore both the leather and skin at his knee.

The scrape was not too deep and Jon repaired the torn leather himself by firelight. But the cold often seeped through the stitches he’d made, leaving Jon’s knee sore and numb.

The elder he’d helped, Ulelda, came to him one evening with breeches of deerhide and sheepskin. She’d made them for her son, she explained, who had died fighting at the Battle of Winterfell. The battle was many months past, but she’d been unwilling to part with the clothing, unable to truly let go of her boy.

Sadness, guilt, failure swept over Jon. _We lost so many, so many dead, so many I couldn’t help, so many I killed-_

But then Ulelda had smiled fondly and squeezed Jon’s arm. Said she’d be proud if Jon wore these breeches, if they helped keep him warm. Jon still felt unworthy, but he accepted the gift with a sad smile and a soft hug. He put them on, and found them warmer than his old ones, more comfortable. In these, Jon felt he could climb, could run, could breathe.

And Tormund said they suited him well.

Jon didn’t much care if the Night’s Watch took issue with him wearing these when he returned.

Jon put his old breeches in the community rag pile. Soon all over camp there were black leather ties holding up cookpots, black leather straps on bedrolls, and black leather harnesses for the sled dogs.

Then, his knife.

They were settling one of the clans in the forest; helping build their stores before the rest moved on. Jon spent most mornings hunting with Tormund. But Jon found that his black-handled steel knife was more useful for close combat with men than for skinning deer. And while he loved Longclaw, and wore it always, the sword was useless for hunting. Jon needed new weapons.

The solution came as Jon helped Kjeld by the cookfires one afternoon. Jon had used his steel knife to cut some roots for a stew, and Kjeld admired the steel, was impressed by the craftsmanship. He spoke about how useful such a knife would be for cooking, for building. He asked Jon if he’d be willing to make a trade.

Jon spared a quick thought for Castle Black’s Master at Arms, always telling the Brothers to keep a close eye on their weapons. Jon was leaving this group soon, heading father north with Tormund and his band. If he gave this knife away, he’d never see it again.

But Jon needed to hunt, to help the Free Folk eat. He needed weapons more suited for beasts than men. And he liked the idea of a knife meant for combat being used instead to cook, to rebuild the Free Folk.

So Jon agreed to give the knife to Kjeld, and in return Jon received a good net, a sharp deadly spear, and a finely crafted antler knife specifically made for hunting. Jon thanked Kjeld richly, then went to show Tormund his new weapons. Tormund spent the rest of the evening teaching Jon how to use a spear. The next morning, Jon happily made his first kill with it.

The Nights Watch was far away, and what the Master at Arms would think mattered little.

Finally came the coat.

Jon’s black cloak had been frequently ripped, cut and used on the journey north. Woven fabric was impossible to produce as the Free Folk traveled in the dead of winter. So Jon found himself tearing off bits of his cloak to make bandages, foot wrappings, patches for holes in tents. Soon, he realized his cloak was nearly gone, and he missed the warmth.

He was shivering by the fire in his tent one night when Tormund came to him.

“Did you think to tell anyone before you froze to death?”

Jon huffed out a sad little laugh that fogged in the air. “Aye, it’s cold, but not too bad. I can handle it.”

Tormund looked at him for a moment, then wrapped him in a hug. Jon melted into the warmth.

It was still a bit odd for Jon to freely accept the affection and care of other men. But he’d learned that the Free Folk had little use for false masculine bravado, and Jon welcomed the tenderness.

Tormund stroked Jon’s hair. “You aren’t a Crow anymore. The Free Folk don’t suffer things alone.”

He gave Jon one more tight squeeze then let him go, turning to fetch something he’d brought with him.

“I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

“Well, more a necessity so you won’t die on all of us.”

Tormund faced Jon with a bundle of furs. Jon took them, held them up to the light.

It was a grand fur coat, made of elkhide and snow bear skin. It went past his knees and had a large hood that would keep his ears warm even when it wasn’t raised.

Jon ran his hands over the stitching. “Did you make this?”

Tormund nodded. “Had to find some way to keep that stubborn ass of yours warm. The elk is the first beast you killed with a spear. I killed the snow bear myself. Both of us are in this coat. And look, here at the sleeves.”

Jon examined the sleeves, where fur and hide met. Several small white wolves were painted on the cuffs.

Jon had seen such animals decorating Free Folk coats before, but the thought that Tormund had put all this work in for him made Jon feel a bit overcome.

“You didn’t have to - you didn’t have to do this for me,” Jon said as tears pricked at his eyes.

Tormund just smiled. “I wanted to. Now come, put it on.”

Jon pulled the thick furs over his shoulders and blushed when Tormund clapped.

“You look grand Jon Snow. No king anywhere looked as fine as you do right now.”

He felt the heat sink into his shoulders, into his chest. Jon looked at Tormund, his eyes dancing in the flickering light, and moved to embrace him again. They flowed into each other, perfectly content.

The Nights Watch couldn’t have been further from his thoughts in this moment. Jon was too filled with joy and warmth and _home_.

* * *

Soon, Jon set out with Tormund and the remaining Free Folk. Tormund knew of another place to settle near the Antler River, a place with trees and fish and good hunting.

There had been an ice storm two nights before, a vicious thing that sent them all huddling together for safety. But in the clear morning sunshine, the storm had turned the whole world into beautiful molten glass. Tree branches sparkled, the snow shone, and they passed a cliff so shiny it looked like a mirror in the sunlight.

Jon looked at them all reflected in the cliffside, the small band making the trek on foot.

He started a bit when he could not find himself. Could not pick himself out of the group.

_Which one am I?_

As they drew closer to the cliff, close enough to touch, Jon stopped and stared at his reflection.

Jon knew he’d changed, knew he looked different. But he had not seen himself in a mirror in a long time, and he still often thought of himself as a man in black.

Jon looked at his furs and his antler knife and his spear strapped to his back. He looked at his loose hair that had grown longer, wilder, almost to his shoulders. He looked at the frost on his eyebrows, eyelashes.

His black boots were gone, his black cloak was gone, his black knife was gone. Even his black horse was gone; he’d given it up months ago when an elder turned his ankle and needed to ride. Only Longclaw strapped at his side distinguished him from the others, and anyone from Westeros who saw it would assume it’d been stolen in a raid.

Jon saw in his reflection not a man of the Night’s Watch, not a King, not even a courtly bastard of the Seven Kingdoms, but a _Wildling._

And for a moment, he mourned. He’d given up on going back to Castle Black long ago, but suddenly this felt like a goodbye. Like an end to the man he’d been for most of his life, an end to the dreams he’d held close in childhood. He’d never be able to go back, would never be that boy again.

His breath seemed sharp in the air. 

But then Jon looked forward, towards his new clan, his new family. He looked at the people who had put him back together, who helped Jon gather the new pieces of himself. And he felt a quiet joy settle in his bones.

In the snows and wilds beyond the Wall, he was slowly becoming something new.

No, he could never be a boy again. But he could be a different man. A good man. A man who let go of the monsters in his past and worked to help others. After all, there was work to be done here, a world to rebuild. And Jon wanted to be part of it. He wanted to create something new.

“Jon?” he heard somewhere.

Jon turned and saw Tormund walking towards him, careful on the frozen snow. Soon, he was close enough to touch.

“Jon, are you alright?”

Jon looked at the two of them, reflected in ice. Something in his heart sang. Standing beside each other in furs...it looked _right._

Jon smiled and took Tormund’s hand. 

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
